


Curiouser and Curiouser!

by anaisangel



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alice in Wonderland References, Aphrodisiacs, Cunnilingus, Excessive Rhyming, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Hypnotism, Jervis Has Issues, Kidnapping, Obsessive Behavior, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27628378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaisangel/pseuds/anaisangel
Summary: She shakes her head and offers him an apologetic look. "You've been too kind - letting me wander through this marvelous place, inviting me to this beautiful tea party and yet...I'm sorry to say that I don't know your name." She looks up at him, and his expression is soft and warm, and she thinks to herself that his eyes aren't all that scary - not when they look at her like that."My darling, apologies are for the erroneous, to which you are not. It's rather appropriate, in fact - a surprise is not a surprise if theknowingis got."She's not sure where she is, how she got here, or when she changed into this pretty blue and white dress. All she knows is that she's late, and the white rabbit will show her the way.
Relationships: Jervis Tetch/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 26





	Curiouser and Curiouser!

The stiff ache in her back is what brings her to, a small groan slipping from her chapped lips as she stirs. With that consciousness comes the throb in her skull, temples pulsating, pounding like bass drums getting whacked with rubber mallets. Her eyes flutter open sluggishly, the room is dark but light streaks in through slats over the windows. It's dull, luminescent, distant streetlights trickling in through the cracks. She makes out white figures looming throughout the spacious room, ghost like in the dark; sheets draped over furniture, she can taste dust in the air as she pieces herself together.

It's a peculiar sensation - slipping back into your head but still feeling lost within, as _well_ as out. 

She's never been here, wherever _here_ is. She feels a pang of something, panic possibly, but it's dull and distant, a haze fogging her head as she comes to her bearings enough to sit straight. The ruffle of fabric at her waist and the unfamiliar draft that creeps up her legs is enough to stir her, her heavy gaze sinking downward with dreary acknowledgement. Muted pastel blue bunches in a mass of fabric, trimmed with a thin layer of white. She brings her fingers to her lap, smoothing the dress out with distant appreciation. It's soft, airy and bright even in the darkness that surrounds her. Her attention fall to the white stockings on her legs, down further to the black kitten heels on her feet. She doesn't own any of what she's wearing, that clicks somewhere in her head, but she can't seem to be bothered by it.

The dress is pretty. It's all very pretty and nice. 

She stands slowly, dress falling in place and billowing out around her knees as she takes a tentative step away from the loveseat. Her heel clicks against the hardwood floor, a whisper of a creak on the second step. There's three doors, two before her and one behind her and she stops a moment to think, _think_ about where she is, what she's doing - _what happened?_ \- but a sudden, rapid succession of _thumps_ startles her, tugs her deeper into the unfettered curiosity that itches beneath her skin. It's coming from the second door, open just a hair and beckoning with a faint glow of light, golden. She goes to it, and somewhere far away she can hear a tick-tick-ticking so faint it slips from her grasp over and over again, like tug-of-war but she's not sure who's pulling on the other side. 

That itching feeling is steeping, sinking further into her until her blood feels like it's vibrating; it's the spirit of inquiry, so potent and alarmingly present that it's _all_ she can think about, it's the driving force that has her push the door open and step in without a moments hesitance. Has she always been this gallant, this unflinchingly bold in the face of something so very clearly dangerous? She can't remember, and the aching thrum in her temples is quite the deterrent from trying to remember at all. Well, that and the fantastical juxtaposition of the room she's stepped into; it's _glowing,_ golden and warm with a gorgeous cacophony of antiquated furniture and décor. She's immediately reminded of a dollhouse - the large, expensive ones with their miniature furniture and painted with the intent of opulence. 

She's entranced, dreamily admiring the collage of paintings that cover the furthest most wall, the way the colors within them hum in the light. She steps further into the room, lets herself peruse the wide range of antiques that sit around unassuming and posh like a treasure trove; golden trimmed wardrobe, tall legged end-tables, their surfaces crowded with everything from crystal bowls filled with old jewelry to shiny glass figurines of rabbits and flowers. She brushes her fingers over a picture frame, nestled in a throng of shimmering knick-knacks; it's a picture of a woman, blonde hair and sad eyes. She thinks about who it could be, and the thought tugs her to her senses for just a moment. 

"Hello?" She begins, drawing back to look around the room. It looks different, somehow. Lackluster, the figurines are chipped and dirty, the golden glow is dissipating, draining the color from the paintings in a way that makes them look as though they're melting right off the wall.

"Is there anyone... _anyone_.." She loses the string of thought, the words slipping from the tip of her tongue and lost once more in the fog. The cognizance is fleeting, replaced with that dreamlike stupor where nothing matters, nothing at all. The ticking is there, the pulsating throb in her temple returns, and she gives a small noise of displeasure at the feeling.

The thumping strikes again, closer and clearer. Whipping around, she catches sight of something beneath a table; this one holding a rather handsomely kept phonograph. 

"Who's under there?" She queries, sounding like a stranger to herself. She bunches the dress skirt in her hands, slowly crouching down enough that she can peer beneath the table, under the large cream tablecloth that waterfalls over the edge of it. There's a white rabbit, stopping mid paw-to-ear swipe to stare right back at her. "Well, hello there little guy." She coos at it, a smile tugging at her lips and this is strange - this is very, _very_ strange but she can't seem to grasp the caution she _should_ have. 

_"The beauty awakens, how wonderful! But, you must hasten, there's fun to be had and clock's due to toll."_

She jumps, scarcely missing her head against the table as she draws back. The phonograph had started, seemingly on it's own, and the voice...the voice is familiar, she thinks she's heard it before but she can't place it. Only the dizzying sensation of déjà vu. 

_"You're late, my dear! You're late for a very important date. Follow the white rabbit, don't make tardiness a habit, for we've got together a fantastical fate."_

She sways a little, feeling weightless and whimsically carefree. The voice is dancing through syllables, cantering through her muddled head with a pleasant softness. 

_"Come, my dear Alice. I've been waiting for you."_

Then the rhythm is gone, the absence of the rhyme making it sound harsh and demanding. It snaps her from her delighted haze, and there's no time for questions to rise because the ticking is back. It's back and it's _loud_ , and her head is swimming and her heart is pounding. The longer the ticking drones on the further she regresses, the deeper she sinks. Soon, the sound melds together with her heartbeat, and it's forgotten all over again. 

She looks at the rabbit. It looks back, beady black eyes that are devoid of any preternatural awareness. Still, she shuffles in closer to it, feeling like a child but completely content with it, she asks, "Do you know the way? I've never been here before." The rabbit says nothing. She sighs, and shifts onto her haunches. 

"Such a strange place...but this room is _wonderful_. I'm sure there are other rooms like it - just as wonderful, but I'm worried I'll get lost. And I need to find someone..." She speaks softly, treading a strange place in her mind between delirium and lucidity. "How disappointing. I'm almost always never late." 

The rabbit swipes it's paw over it's face, staring, then hops away. She perks up, excitement swelling in her tummy as she watches it meander it's way through the furniture legs toward the door she'd come from. She's quick to follow, pushing herself up and skipping after it when it disappears into the ghostly room.

The rabbit crosses the room at it's leisure, and she follows close behind, stopping when it stops, going when it goes, and it feels like a game - it's fun and she likes it, but the sheeted furniture from her peripheral looks like spectral apparitions and the glow from the sliver of light dances shadows in the dark spaces - _but this is fun._

It leads her to the door on the opposite side of the room, halting and looking at her with what she thinks is expectation. "Through here, then?" She hums, and takes hold of the handle; it's brass, ancient and squeaky as she turns it over and slowly pushes the door open. The rabbit is quick to dart between her feet, disappearing somewhere in the room.

"Oh my..." She steps in, welcomed by a wild flourish of flowers every color under the sun; white and red and yellow roses, purple lilacs and lavender sprouts, foliage that glows maroon and green under the spilt moonlight through the vaulted glass ceiling. It's a forest of greenery, so much that there's scarcely enough room to walk through toward the door on the opposite side. Thankfully, a pathway cleaves through the garden in a sinuous black and white checkered walkway. The scent of the room is overpowering; a thick balmy sweetness that makes her want to sneeze, and she smiles and scrunches her nose as she ambles down the path.

"Well, I think this might be my new favorite room." A scuffle of movement gives away the white rabbits location, huddled at the base of an enormous ceramic pot, housing a wildly overgrown and fully bloomed rose bush. A wooden sign is staked into the soil, 'Tea Party' read in whimsical cursive on the arrow-shaped surface. She approaches, giving a thoughtful hum as she looks from the sign to the rabbit.

"You're right. I can't decide quite yet - there's more to see tonight. " She gestures to the sign. "This tea party must be what I'm late for. I don't know anyone who has tea parties, though." The rabbit stares blankly. "I suppose you do?" Nothing. She's beginning to wonder if this rabbit knows anything at all. "Keep your secrets then, little rabbit." She jests, and goes to the door without it's bouncing guidance. 

It's closed, but she can hear something on the other side; ticking. It's almost tangible, as compared to the strange tick-tock that rings in her head. She turns the brass handle, opening it with a twisting curiosity in her chest. It makes her strangely giddy, and as the door opens she's rendered wholly awed; it's a dining room, cavernous and large and glimmering with specks of light, refracting through the crystal chandelier strung high above the stretched table. The table itself is draped in a myriad of colorful cloths, over that a mess of mismatched glass flatware; dainty cups atop glimmering saucers, tea pots and tier trays filled with cookies and little cakes. Like confetti, playing cards are scattered all over the table, and in the center is a stunning glass vase stuffed to the brim with a plethora of vibrant flowers. 

The ticking, she realizes, is coming from the clocks. _Clocks_ , because there are multiple, dotting the walls in between the paintings, which consist of everything from castles to plants to people. They're all in sync, she feels as though she can hear every single tick-tock of every single clock, like they have their own voices. It's hypnotic, and she stands inert for a moment, basking in the glow of the chandelier, swaying to the tune of time. Distantly, she registers the rabbit brush against her ankle, darting beneath the table to disappear.

She wonders if he's here for the tea party, as well. 

"My dear Alice, I'm so thrilled you made it!" That voice again, the one that itches a part of her brain she can't seem to open, chimes in from behind her. Whoever it belongs to is really here, she can tell by the smooth clarity of which he speaks. Her feet feel frozen, however - the ticking of the clocks drones on, and she can't seem to bring herself to move. No matter, the owner of the mysterious voice approaches her from behind, rounding her slowly. 

"I pray you found me well, although for you - " He's standing before her now, and she's staring at the clean cut of his jacket, the creased line in his slacks down to the pristine, black dress shoes that seem to dwarf her own feet by comparison, and she can compare because he takes a step closer, close enough that he can bring his gloved fingers to her chin. He nudges upward, and she follows and acknowledges him through her heavy lids. "I would have happily waited." 

The ostentatious hat atop his head would have caught her attention foremost, but something about the abyssal depth in his eyes garners more intrigue. She's sure they're black, and it makes her think of a shark; hungry and dangerous. Then he smiles, and it's all teeth yet somehow benign, and she smiles back but it all feels a bit _muzzy_. 

"Quite the adventure you've had, my dear. Come, tell me now, which room did you hold most dear?" He takes a step back, and she feels a rush within her, a modicum of movement returns and with that comes the desire to indulge him - she did _very_ _much_ want to talk about the antique room with it's beautiful golden display, and the flower room with it's fantastical concoction of colors and scents, and the curious rabbit who showed her all the way. 

He heads to the grandiose table, stopping before a dining chair to wrap his fingers around the back and pull it out. He gives her an imploring look, and the chivalry coupled with his charming smile is comforting to her. She steps to the table, and she thinks about how nice this man is; a true gentleman, and yet...

"I've realized something." She says, wistfully. The man quirks his head slightly, curiosity written on his angled features. 

"Have you? An idea, a revelation?" He queries, his tone light and whimsical.

She shakes her head and offers him an apologetic look. "You've been too kind - letting me wander through this marvelous place, inviting me to this beautiful tea party and yet...I'm sorry to say that I don't know your name." She looks up at him, and his expression is soft and warm, and she thinks to herself that his eyes aren't all that scary - not when they look at her like that. 

"My darling, apologies are for the erroneous, to which you are not. It's rather appropriate, in fact - a surprise is not a surprise if the _knowing_ is got." 

She blushes at the notion, "A surprise party, for me? I can't imagine what I've done to deserve such a thing." 

He comes close then, reaching out he takes her hand in his own and places his other atop it, leaning in. It's a rather intimate gesture, she's well aware as the proximity of him is near enough she can see the honeyed brown in his eyes. 

"A party for one is simply glum, but you've done everything to make this more fun. Being here, with me - " His voice lowers marginally, enough to pitch gravel to his tone as he brings a hand up and brushes his fingers against her cheek. "seeing you enjoy the scenery, the greenery; discarded to others but you, oh you are just _colored_ with that curious hue and this party would not be such without that due."

His hand lingers on her face, and she feels warm and seen and there's a prickling of uncertainty somewhere within her, but it's so hard to grasp onto it when his voice is as hypnotic as it is. His dark gaze lingers on her face, affectionately taking her in. 

"As for my name, well I'm afraid it's rather tame, but you may call me Mister Tetch." 

" _Mister Tetch_..." She echoes, tasting the name on her tongue, and it is eerily familiar but she cannot seem to pinpoint from _where_. Still, despite all this strangeness, she is compelled to pleasantries. "It's very nice to meet you." 

"Please, the pleasure is all mine. Come, sit, dine - " He steps further back and gestures to the chair he'd pulled out, "We've much to do, much to see, but foremost we must have some tea." 

And she does. Smiling gently at Mr.Tetch, she follows his guidance, tucking the voluminous skirt of her blue and white dress flush against her thighs as she settles in, Mr.Tetch pushes the chair in gingerly. He hums with content, and it flows into a tune she thinks she's heard before as he rounds her. 

"Was the journey here fair? And what of the hare - did he show you which is where?" He asks, plucking a bulbous, ivory and gold tea pot from the table. She watches his hands, clad in pristine leather gloves, as he tips the kettle to pour into the teacup set before her. The smell of the tea is poignant, herbal and tart. 

"Yes, he did. Although I will say he isn't much of a talker." She replies. Mr.Tetch gives a small chuckle, and it's a nice sound because it isn't too deep, it isn't too high, it's somewhere between the two. "I think my most favorite room is the garden. I don't think I've ever seen so many different flowers in one place, it was...magical." 

"The garden, I have to agree. It's quite the sight in the day, and it is _in fact_ where I've grown the leaves for this earl grey. I do hope you like this tea, it's a special blend, you see." He hovers the teapot over another cup and pours, setting it back down on the table before taking the seat at the head of the table, just to her right. 

The tea does smell enticing, and her fingers itch to pick the cup up and take a drink, but something is holding her back. She can't decipher exactly what it is, but it's there. Mr.Tetch takes his own saucer and cup in hand, holding them idle and proper as he quirks his head at her. 

"Please, have a taste. Else it'll go cold, and my, that would be _quite_ the waste." He gives a toasting gesture with his cup.

She flits her attention from Mr.Tetch to the tea before her. It's steaming, wafting the rich aroma upwards and she picks up the little plate, the cup shifting just slightly as her hands are shaking. She's not sure why they are, but she hopes that the tea will help. She steals another glance at Mr.Tetch only to see he's still looking at her, expectation clear in his dark gaze. It's hard to look away from him, and they keep their eyes locked as they both tip their cups and take their respective sips; it's almost too hot, borderline scalding but it's a tart and citrusy piquancy that makes her go back for a second taste without any hesitance.

Mr.Tetch looks pleased with that, and that makes her happy. The hot tea settles in her belly, and her whole body feels warm. It's pleasant at first, but there's an edge to it, creeping further out like a blooming flower. She squirms in her seat a bit, setting the teacup down carefully.

"Do you like it, Alice? Doesn't it just hit the spot?" Mr.Tetch asks, his grin wide and toothy. She looks to him again, nods her head which feels suddenly very heavy, like the fog from earlier has come back twice over. "I must say, I've given this moment quite a bit of thought. You see, I missed you dearly, and losing you has left me in quite the rot." 

She finds it hard to concentrate, his words looping like spoken cursive around her head, it's pretty cadence seemingly dipping deeper and deeper. His voice is that gravel again, prodding at that warmth inside her, pushing it further until it travels from her stomach to between her thighs. A blush flourishes up her neck, stippling at her cheeks. 

"But you're here again! You're here, and no longer will my life be so _austere,"_ He leans over the table excitedly, and she can smell the cologne on him, an alluring cedar that swirls together nicely with the aroma of earl grey. The heat intensifies at that, and she's pushing her knees together with stifled embarrassment. "and now that we're together once more, there's plenty a game to explore, and I do so hope you're as playful as I recall. Don't you remember, in the fall, when you and I played chase and you made quite the haste - _I do._ "

He cut the sentence short, and it felt all too much like a gavel against wood; foreboding in a way. She hasn't the mind to be concerned with it, the heat in her has risen to a flame, and it's licking the inside of her, tendrils of fire searching for some semblance of satiation. She's sure she's as red as a tomato, and she can't stop squirming in her seat, or squeezing her knees together, or looking at the tawny expanse of Mr.Tetch's neck that she hadn't noticed was so...endearing, before. 

"M-Mister Tetch, I don't feel well." She whispers, "I feel all... _warm_." 

His expression softens once more, and it helps soothe the alarm that threatens to break through in her. 

"Oh, darling Alice. You seem to have forgotten," He says, stretching his hand out to touch her face once more. He caresses her cheek with his knuckles, the sensation felt acutely against her skin. A small whimper tumbles past her lips, and Mr.Tetch's smile twitches with something like anticipation. "With every ailment you befell, I was there keeping you well." His hand ghosts from her face, his fingers trailing down the length of her neck to stop at her collarbone, brushing aside her hair. 

Her breath feels short, and she's panting like the heat within her is searing her inside out. Mr.Tetch presses a gentle touch against the hollow of her throat with his thumb, his fingers laying against the side of her neck. She whines again, sounding desperate for something she's far too bashful to voice. 

"I don't...I don't know - "

"You've felt this before, oh I'm so very sure. Burning you up from within, but there is no need for chagrin." Mr.Tetch assures her, and she's twisting now, fighting the urge to reach out and touch him because it's all she can think about, it's the only thing that can slake that fire within her. 

"Would you like me to help you, Alice?" Mr.Tetch asks.

He looks so kind, so _sincere_ , and she's sure that he _really_ wants to help her, and his hand on her neck is sending scintillas of desire down to her stomach that feed into that burning need until it becomes near unbearable. She thinks about how just his touch can do that, and then she thinks of other things; she thinks of Mr.Tetch's mouth, his full lips that are almost always pulled into that friendly smile, and what they might feel like on her own. She thinks of Mr.Tetch's hands, large and thin and elegant, and how the weight of his fingers on her throat is sending perpetual shivers down her spine - the thought of those fingers elsewhere forces a small, timorous moan from her lips. 

" _Yes_ \- yes _please,_ Mister Tetch." Her fingers are curled into her skirts, clenching with white knuckles, body quivering with barely restrained urgency.

Mr.Tetch lets out a sharp breath, like he was waiting, bated. She feels the warmth of it on her face as she stares into the depth of his eyes. They're dark again, but not like before, when they seemed endless. His pupils are blown, a sliver of brown barely legible but there nonetheless. 

"Oh, Alice...how I've waited to hear you say so." He says dreamily.

He stands from his chair, and she's swimming in need and hyper-focused on his face, which comes startling close to her own with a quickness that would have made her uncomfortable. On the contrary, her breath catches in her throat and her head tilts on it's own volition, and Mr.Tetch is standing above her, his hand is on her throat again but this time it's more brazen, his fingers snug beneath her jaw.

"How I've missed you." He says thoughtfully, his dark eyes searching her face for something unknown to her. Still, she finds herself leaning into the touch, and her words escape her before a second thought could catch up. 

"I...I missed you, too, Mister Tetch." She breathes. A part of her knows that that's not right, that it's not true, that she's never talked to this man before but far on the other end of her mental tightrope she feels it's exactly the right thing to say. The awed surprise that flits across his face is enough reassurance, and then he leans down and presses his mouth against hers. 

The kiss is chaste, and gentle. She shivers at the feeling of his stubble against her skin, the warmth of his lips upon her own, the sweetness he employs as does it. She likes it, wishes that she wasn't burning alive so she could savor in the docility of it all, but she can't - like his touch is charged, that heat in her stomach and between her legs ignites with a viciousness she's not sure she'll ever be able to escape. She gives a whimper, muffled against Mr.Tetch's enticing mouth and her hands clench and unclench the fabric of her dress. She's forced to pull back, breathless and Mr.Tetch gives a shuddering exhale that does everything to drive her mad. 

"Please, I-I need.." She begins, feeling embarrassed and too utterly bashful to state her desire. She's digging her fingers into her legs through the dress, and she can feel a slick wet between her thighs, to which she pushes her knees together even tighter, as though to hide it away.

Mr.Tetch's expression is wonderous, and he brushes her hair from her face and says softly, sensually, "My darling, you need only ask. Anything you wish, nothing is too great a task." 

Although she is fraught with humiliation at her current predicament, her need for relief is treading painful. She swallows thickly, her throat feeling like sandpaper, and manages a piteous "Touch me, please.", tearing her gaze from his with shame. But Mr.Tetch seems to be having none of that, as he takes her chin in his grasp and, much to her relief, leans down and kisses her again. It's different the second time; he glides his tongue along the seam of her lips, spurring her to part them. It's a strange sensation, but muscle memory has her reciprocating, tasting the tea they had as well as something sweeter, something like the little cakes that sit on the table before her. 

The embrace offers a fleeting relief, but as Mr.Tetch kisses her, touches her with his hand on her face and the other on her throat, she can't help but want _more_. Serendipitously, his hand against her face is gone and the weight of his palm is pressed against her sternum, slowly inching downwards towards the throbbing ache. She whines in his mouth when he brushes over her breasts, breath hitches in her throat as he splays his fingers against her stomach, and Mr.Tetch's lips curl into a smile before pulling away just enough to speak. 

"Could you be clear, Alice dear? Is this the place, is it here?" He asks, his tone huskier than before as he maneuvers his hand beneath the fabric of her skirt, fingers ghosting along her stocking clad thighs and higher. 

She stutters a whimper, her legs parting on their own accord, hastily taking handfuls of Mr.Tetch's jacket in her trembling fingers.

She nods her head vehemently, "Y-Yes! Yes, please, _please_ Mister Tetch!", desperation spilling from her lips. "I-It hurts, _please_."

"Oh, dear.." He glides his hand higher, pressing two fingers against the soaked fabric of her panties. The sensation jolts her, bucking her hips up against his hand she moans completely unabashed, too caught up in the aching pain, the powerful pressure from just the lightest touch. She's burning, ashamed as she buries her face in the crook of Mr.Tetch's neck. The scent of cedar is overwhelming, his hot skin against her face. She thinks she can hear his heartbeat. 

"Oh my...there's no need to be shy." Mr.Tetch is breathing hard now as his touch flits away, only for a moments time as he slips his fingers beneath the elastic of her underwear. When he presses against the swollen bud of her clit she moans, loud and high and she has the sudden urge to bury her teeth in his neck, to stifle the sounds that keep escaping her. He continues on, drawing lazy circles around the center-point, eluding from touching her where she so urgently needs it. 

"Mister Tetch, _please_ , I need-I need-" She's babbling against his throat, squirming and rolling her hips, trying to chase the tips of his fingers. 

"Patience..." He begins, touches lower, between her slick folds, "Patience gives time for a lovely cadence, to which I want to hear. Sing for me Alice, for your voice..." Pushing two fingers inside her, he sinks them deep and curls them, stretching her. She gasps, the sound twisting into a wanton moan, her back arching from the chair as her legs push further apart, pressing into the armrests painfully. "Your voice is _oh_ so pure." 

It feels like rapture, the way he languidly pushes and pulls his fingers within her, dragging them along an especially sensitive patch that has waves of pleasure roll her further under. She clings to Mr.Tetch, craning her head so she can breathe him in, like he is the air and she's just scarcely above the surface, gasping and moaning and flailing. 

"A shame, but I must put the tea to waste - there's something else I want to taste." It's barely a whisper, and she doesn't register it until Mr.Tetch pulls his hand away, taking the shattering pleasure along with it.

She lets out a weak cry of discontent. He tears himself from her grasp, shushing her gently, leaving her feeling utterly lost without him before he kneels down, maneuvering the chair she sits with a quickness that startles her. His hands find her knees, pushing them apart as she had drawn them together, her face a furious red and her glossy eyes at half-mast. Somewhere, deep in her subconscious, she knows that this is very wrong, but then he smooths his palms up her thighs, bunching the fabric of her dress until his gloved fingers can hook into her panties; she raises her hips eagerly, her fingers wrapped tight around the armrests of the chair. 

The air hits her first, cool and sending goosebumps to ripple along her legs, the sensation juxtaposed as she takes in the way Mr.Tetch looks at her; he has that hungry look again, settling strangely with the guileless of his - like a kid in a candy store. He peers at her through his lashes as his palms follow the circumference of her thighs, slipping beneath them to gently lift her legs, spreading her further. 

"M-Mister Tetch -" She stutters, bashful as he props her legs on his shoulders. "I-I've never done this, I...I don't think -" She stumbles over the words as he leans in.

"Of course we have, my dear. You and I together like this, there's nothing to fear. I've always known what's best for you, _always_ have I stayed true." He assures her on the side of eager, persistent like he can't wait another moments time.

She gnaws on her lower lip, watching the way he leans closer, her legs pushing against his shoulders on instinct but having him anywhere that isn't _there_ seems asinine. He doesn't say anything else, whatever window she had to object to his advances a passing brevity, gone along with her breath as he closes in and parts her slick folds with his tongue. The touch is electric, shooting up her spine and spurring a quivering moan from her lips.

Her hands tighten around the armrests, gripping on for dear life as Mr.Tetch licks between her thighs; long swipes that end with a flourish around her swollen clit, dipping back down to prod at her entrance before repeating the motion. Each time sends her further into oblivion, thoughts of anything but the way he makes her feel, the disparity of relief and rising desire consuming her - much like Mr.Tetch's wonderous mouth.

As though she isn't already being pummeled by pleasure, pushed deeper into the chair with her legs spreading farther and farther, Mr.Tetch's right hand glides up her thigh to join his mouth, easily sliding two fingers into her heat, no hesitation as he begins pumping them steadily, curling and uncurling in just the right place. She breathes out a high moan, sounding relieved and strained in equal balance, and he starts humming against her, that same tune from before; light and whimsical, it's a stark contrast to the lewd, slick sounds his mouth and fingers make, but the vibration of it is jolting. She cries out, her hands tearing from the armrests and instinctively drawn to his head. 

She knocks his top hat right off, burying her fingers in his thick mane of chestnut waves. Mr.Tetch has no qualms, rather, if she were paying enough mind, she would feel him smile against her womanhood before continuing his ministrations with a vigor that has her on the edge of the precipice in no time. She doesn't have the control to stop the way she bucks her hips, or the way she tugs on his hair. She barely has enough sense to look down, her vision blurred with tears of desperation, taking in the sight of his handsome face between her legs. His humming switches to sounds of delight; moaning and groaning against her cunt as his fingers work twice-over.

Smoothly, he pulls away, his thumb taking over to saw against her clit, his gloves slick with her wet. She jerks against him, toes curling, legs tensing against his shoulders. 

"M-Mister T-Tetch - I'm, _ah!_ \- I'm g-going to -" She's writhing, gazing down her heaving torso as Mr.Tetch looks up at her with an alarming type of manic in his dark eyes. 

"Oh Alice - you look a dream!" He exclaims, his breath heavy as he watches her crumble to pieces. Burying his fingers to the knuckle, he curls them drastically and presses hard against her wall, dragging against that spot over and over. "Let go for me, give in, _scream_." 

Her body tenses, going rigid as her mouth drops open in a piercing cry; as though that ball of warmth within her has exploded, white hot pleasure courses through her veins like magma, rendering her to pieces. The intensity of it is enough to knock her free from her delirious stupor; the sound of the clocks are louder now, pushed to the forefront like tick-tocking faces emerging through a thicket. Distantly she can register her surroundings, the color draining from the paintings, the chandeliers glimmering light dimming, like the house itself is falling to disrepair around her.

Her heart is hammering in her ears, confusion and panic surfaces at the dying plants in the vase, the residual tremors of an orgasm she can hardly remember experiencing, the handfuls of thick hair in her hands, and the piercing gaze of the man between her spread legs. There's an agonizing ache pounding in her skull, struggling to tear from the pulling lure of the clock's ticking. She untangles her hands hastily, and then Mr.Tetch is right there; lifting himself up, bringing himself close, she flinches away when his mouth goes to her ear. 

"Disregard thought, forget about time. Yourself you are not, tonight you are _mine_." He breathes harshly in her ear.

Her head is plagued by a splitting pressure, as though she's being torn apart from within. She grits out a pained whimper, her hands clutching at the thick fabric of his jacket, pulling him close and pushing him away all at once. Her consciousness slips from her grasp, pushed to the recesses of her mind, her last cognizant thought ringing like a distant echo;

Tetch...Tetch... _Jervis Tetch._

**Author's Note:**

> Ya'll, I did not mean to go this hard on this fic, but _dammit,_ Gotham-verse Jervis Tetch is a psycho-snack that doesn't get as much love as he deserves. Consider this (100% self indulgent) one shot my contribution. Also, sorry for typos, sadly I did not have enough time to edit this, so it might have been all over the place, but I hope you enjoyed it regardless!


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